Superman: The Justice League
by cjp315
Summary: A series of stories set in the wake of a hypothetical first arc of Justice League. Superman sets out to recruit the Justice League. Set in the quasi-DCnU. Any inconsistencies are no doubt the result of some crisis or another. Now with added Wally West!
1. Aquaman

Superman and Aquaman

Wham

Arthur was hurled from the hulking leviathan by a blow that would have taken the head off of an elephant. Thankfully, Arthur was far stronger and possessed much thicker skin. Half way through his collision course with an undersea reef, teeming with life, Arthur flipped himself, counteracted his velocity with a few sound stokes, and swam back towards whichever monstrosity the Bermuda Triangle had spat out this particular week. It wasn't any more difficult than swimming up Niagara Falls. He didn't even drop his trident.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Arthur felt a collective sigh of relief from three million minuscule yet sentient reef inhabitants. He smiled to himself, ignoring the pain in his shoulder where the creature had struck him, and not getting too cocky. They weren't all out of danger yet.

Then he looked up.

_Damn_, Arthur cursed to himself, as a cruise ship blocked the sunlight overhead. The Bermuda Triangle was a truly horrible place to sail. Or live, for that matter, but there was no land in the trans-dimensional breach which characterized the Triangle and water-breathers were smart enough to stay away. Well, aside from the tiny civilizations which lived on the reefs, but they were immobile and could hardly be blamed for being born within a monster infested area.

Indeed, Old-Atlantis had spent a good amount of magic, centuries earlier, quelling the winds within the Triangle, hoping to dissuade land-dweller ships. It was magnanimous, magically taxing, and, in the wake of steam and motor boats, completely irrelevant. The Triangle was one of the most traveled shipping routs in the modern world.

_Land-dwellers_, Arthur thought to himself and grimaced, the blind stupidity of some people would never stop surprising him.

The leviathan roared a roar which would tear out a normal person's eardrums, or would have if a normal person could hear subsonic frequencies such as those, and swam up towards the enormous cruise vessel, broadcasting a rapacious desire to feast.

Arthur was faster; much, much faster.

Overtaking it and doubling back, Arthur cut off the creature's assent. Not wasting a moment, Arthur plunged his trident into one of the beast's seven eyes in the hope it would at least that slow the thing.

It did. For a moment. The creature spasmed and roared a second subsonic roar which would cause a good number of tidal waves which Arthur would need to deal with afterward. Black blood poured and then clouded from the deflated pouch which had once been an eye.

However, just as quickly, the beast recovered and resumed his assent. Arthur felt a bit slighted, but it was a eighty-foot, bipedal Kraken-Fiend; how else would one treat a minnow with a spear? Swat and resume. Arthur couldn't even call on any whales or sharks to help. They wouldn't be fast enough and he only would have been putting more lives in harm's way. That was not something Arthur was prepared to do.

No, this would take –

Suddenly, the shadow of the ship vanished. Arthur stopped and looked up. _Gone_.

_Ah_, he thought, this had gotten simpler if also inconvenient.

The beast stopped, Arthur felt the slow, creeping confusion in the beast's mind, too large to control but too loud to tune out. Arthur didn't share it. He knew what would happen next. He waited.

Four seconds later, a blue blur plunged into the ocean and delivered a punch that was too fast for normal eyes to see into the face of the creature. Too stunned to howl, the creature recoiled backwards.

"There's a portal approximately three miles to the south. It glows a bright ultraviolet, I expect you can see on that wavelength," Arthur murmured, softly, knowing that the blue blur would hear regardless of his volume.

The blur grabbed hold of the enormous monster and dragged it south. Arthur sighed and waited until he didn't hear the creature's brain anymore. It was in this dimension no longer.

Superman was floating next to him three seconds later.

"Hello, Arthur," Superman said. Ignoring that it should be impossible for a land-dweller to communicate underwater verbally.

"Hello, Superman," Arthur replied, "there should be some -"

"Tidal waves hitting Cuba, I know," Superman finished for him, "I saw those and counteracted the frequencies. Should be fine, though I didn't see. Stayed underwater, out of sight. Best to avoid another international incident."

"Oh, is that island another – what was the word? – county?" Arthur asked, almost amused.

"_Country_," Superman corrected, seriously, "you should really take more -"

"If they're going to treat all of the world's oceans as one giant communal pool to exploit," Arthur retorted, "I'm not going to bother learning all their petty-"

"It's not petty, Arthur," Superman said, warningly, "it's their world."

"And what about my world?" Arthur said, angry about the subject and that he was getting cross with Superman who definitely didn't deserve it.

"Do you really think I'm trying to say your world isn't important?" Superman looked at him pleadingly. Arthur sighed, letting some of his tension fade. But only some.

"No," Arthur said, "I know you would never think that. You're one of the good -"

"They can _all_ be 'good ones,' Arthur," Superman cut him off, again, "but not unless we give them something to believe in."

"So this is about the _Titans_," Arthur said. Superman smiled. Arthur didn't.

"We're not calling it 'The Titans' anymore," Superman said, "Diana thinks it's disrespectful. I think it's a tad presumptuous. Bruce just grimaces at the mention of anything colorful and dramatic as if he's not dressed up like a giant bat. Barry and Hal like it, but I think they would be happy with anything. Vic still likes the name. I think he's going to use it for that youth outreach project he was talking about."

"The Young Titans?" Arthur smirked.

"The Teen Titans," Superman smiled in a completely un-ironic manner, as if the idea filled him with optimism.

"So Victor is out already," Arthur said.

"No, he's going to do both," Superman gave Arthur a look, "I know what you're trying to do. No one has turned me down. You're the last one left from September."

"You decided to come to me last?" Arthur grimaced. Fully aware he was going to need to do something about that chip on his shoulder one day but not entirely caring at the moment.

"I knew it was going to take everyone else signing up to get you involved," Superman countered, not having any of it.

"Look, if we're ever invaded by Apokolips again," Arthur began. He waved his hand to indicate he's be willing to help out but didn't feel like using words.

This was not what he wanted to deal with today. Hulking monsters, sure. Inter-dimensional attacks, why not? But this was worse than those New-Atlanean extremists who suddenly wanted to declare him a god-king after years of calling for his death. Well, not _that_ bad, but still not what he wanted to be doing today.

"We won't be," Superman asserted, "Diana is consulting with the Gods of New Genesis. Hal is alerting the Guardians of the Universe. Bruce and Vic are building a satellite early warning system for future invasions from anywhere."

"The Deep Six stayed behind," Arthur countered. Superman looked surprised.

"They did?" he asked, "you found them?"

"Yes," Arthur said, "they were trying to strong arm their way into ruling a small undersea village in the Arctic. I threw them into the inter-dimensional rift. Which is why I was here when that," Arthur gestured in the direction of the rift, "came out. Still, it was quite pathetic. You should have seen them, all ragged and confused. I don't think Darkseid chose his minions on their individual ambition."

"I don't think so either," Superman said.

"It's a good sign," Arthur said, "it means there probably weren't many others that didn't get forced down the Boom Tube. Not that the Six knew about, at the least."

"Barry found a Parademon in Africa," Superman said, offhand, moving to a sitting position while still eye level with Arthur. For a moment Arthur wonder whether Superman was flying or swimming. Then he shook the question off.

"What was Barry doing in Africa?" he asked.

"Apparently there's a secret civilization of Super-Intelligent Gorillas somewhere in-"

"The Congo," Arthur finished, finding a bit of pleasure in knowing something about the surface world that Superman didn't, "Gorilla City, yes. Atlantis does a lot of trade with them."

"I thought you were an exile," Superman said.

"Things change. It's been a busy few months," Arthur said, "I'm even married now." Superman brightened at that, resuming a vertical stance and patting Arthur on the back just the tiniest bit too hard. He grimaced.

"Congratulations!" Superman laughed, "what's her name?"

"Mera," Arthur said, smiling at the thought but also not exactly wanted to get off topic. Superman was too nice to stay cross with very long and he certainly didn't want to join this – whatever it was – of his.

"Is she nice?" Superman asked, oblivious to the naivety of the question.

"She's like Diana," Arthur said before realizing how true it was, "but – he almost said 'scarier' – more so," he finished. Superman whistled. Underwater. How was that even – never mind.

"Lucky man," Superman grinned. Arthur couldn't help grinning back.

"I'm not joining your team," he said, still grinning.

"You are, though," Superman's smile didn't break, "Look at you. You couldn't even let that reef get trampled." Arthur wondered exactly how long Superman had been watching him before getting involved. It was vaguely disquieting but Superman didn't like stepping on anyone's toes. Arthur decided to take the compliment and not feel infantilized.

"There is no one I know, aside from maybe this plant... thing in Louisiana," Superman went on, "who is more attuned to life on this planet than you."

"Have you looked in the mirror?" Arthur was incredulous and wasn't even going to ask about the swamp-thing. Superman waved his comment away.

"I just have big ears," he said, "you can feel life. All of it."

"Only water-based life," Arthur corrected.

"All life here is water-based life," Superman countered. Arthur sighed and knew it was true. So much for that argument. "And this isn't about fighting monsters or throwing people in jail. If something like that happens and more than one of us are around. We'll deal with it. That's how it has always worked. But. This is about creating something that people can believe in. So we don't have to hide or run anymore once the danger is over. We can be a symbol for people. People on land and, if you'll allow it, people below sea-level. They can be so much _better_ if only they have people to show them the way. This about providing a network which will allow us to deal with huge threats, not to one country or another, not tethered to any governmental authority on Earth, but one that protects all life on -"

"What's it called?" Arthur broke, knowing he'd lost.

"Wait, I have a lot more things to say," Superman said and held out a forestalling hand, oblivious for a moment that he'd won. When it hit him, he smiled.

"You're in?" he asked, elated.

"With a few conditions," Arthur warned.

"Everyone has conditions. Victor wants to build us a base on the moon as one of his. Batman tried to get his protegee on the team," Superman said.

"You didn't let him," Arthur said, shocked.

"Of course not," Superman assured him, "But he's heading out the Teen Titans initiative. Barry's nephew too. Fully supervised," Superman added.

"Well, I suppose that's alright," Arthur grumbled, not one bit pleased with dragging children into this. Of all the things for Bruce to ask for.

"So what are your _conditions_?" Superman said the last word teasingly.

"One, I don't want to be called _Aquaman_," Arthur started. Superman winced.

"It might be a little late for that," he said, nervously.

"Is this about that horrible Lois Lane woman?" Arthur asked wearily.

"The article won a Pulitzer," Superman said, "everyone has read it. Everyone knows you as _Aquaman_."

"Well that's terrible," Arthur grimaced, glad he hadn't been on the surface lately.

"They love you," Superman tried to console, "you're on T-shirts and everything. All over Cape Cod, they have banners declaring themselves the Home Town of Aquaman. You're a hero. We all are. That's what Lois' article made sure of. People know who were are now. That's why this is viable. That's why we can make a real change."

"It's degrading," Arthur insisted.

"You're just going to have to own it, Arthur," Superman said, and shrugged. "I didn't choose my name. Neither did Diana. Bruce is annoyed that people have started leaving off the 'the' in his name. It's fun to tease him about it." Superman's eyes smiled but his face was pleading.

"Fine," Arthur sighed, not wanting to be more difficult than Bruce. If it weren't for the fact that Superman didn't lie, he would have treated the claim that Bruce was in as manipulation. But then, Bruce _had_ gotten them all together.

"Good," Superman said, affirmatively.

"My second condition," Arthur reminded him.

"Ah," Superman said, and waited.

"We're going to be for the whole world," Arthur stated.

"I already said that," Superman retorted.

"I know what you said," Arthur replied, "but I need to know that means something. I don't want to throw into this and then we can't help people in a certain part of the world because of these stupid, arbitrary lines you land-dwellers draw in the sand. I don't care about the current socioeconomic power structure or your squabbling politics. I don't even care about Homo Sapiens. We are for Humans and Atlaneans and Sentient Gorillas and Cosmic Dolphins and Robots and Refugee Martians -"

"Do those exist?" Superman asked, puzzled.

"There are a few who live in New-Atlantis," Arthur said, "a few more in Poseidonis. They're old and psychic and they taught me everything I know about my telepathic abilities. They're peaceful and they know what losing a planet teaches you about life. I won't give them any less protections than -"

"Neither would I," Superman said, not smiling. His eyes were heavy and his brow furrowed. This was a man who would protect anyone and everyone. No matter what. Arthur let his inhibitions lax. It wasn't going to be a problem. This was Superman. Arthur marveled at how that name had come to mean so much in the few months since he had surfaced. It was quite a thing. Nonetheless, he wasn't perfect. For someone who was the greatest protector of life on this planet, Arthur thought, Superman was sometimes ignorant of just how wonderful and intricate that life could be. They'd work on that.

"I'd love to meet them," Superman said, at last. Arthur smiled.

"We can arrange that," he said, "there are probably some on the surface as well. Shape-shifters. I doubt they would be very open. You land-dwellers aren't a cosmopolitan sort."

"_Yet_," Superman smiled.

"Yet," Arthur agreed and shrugged.

"Any more conditions?" Superman asked.

"Well, first I want to hear the name," Arthur started, "if not 'The Titans' what?" Superman paused for effect.

"The Justice League," Superman said and let it hang in the water for a moment.

"And you thought _that_ was less presumptuous than 'The Titans'?" Arthur raised and eyebrow.

"Yes," Superman said, earnestly, "_Titans_ implies that we're born different, better. That we're more powerful and elite than the common man. I don't like that. Furthermore, it puts focus on what we _are_. We need to be about what we _do_. Our actions define us, not our status. We protect. We equalize. We're for _everyone_. More than that, it advertises that we're a group that others can participate with; join even. It's fluid, not something anyone is born into, but something everyone can aspire to." Arthur nodded. That _was_ a good pitch.

"Okay," Arthur said at last, "I'll ask her."

"Ask who?" Superman cocked his head.

"Oh, didn't I mention?" Arthur said, casually, "my third condition. My wife is on the team as well."

Superman grinned ear to ear.

"I can't wait to meet her," he said, "you won't believe what happens next. This is only the beginning."

Aquaman smiled despite himself.

Maybe it was a good day after all.


	2. Wonder Woman

A/N: Thinking about making this a six-chapter series doing each of the Justice League. I probably won't have as much time once school starts as I'll be working and also trying to get my Whofic to a workable climax. Also writing a "real" book with original characters and plotting and things actually happen. On that note, obviously incorporating the Fourth World into Diana's mythos makes no sense with the old continuity. However, as I haven't seen anything featuring Diana in the DCnU, I decided to have some fun with it.

Honestly, feedback is going to supplement much of my thinking about the future of these vignettes and if I continue through the whole roster. So if you like it and you'd like to see the rest, say something.

Edit: Cleaned up *some* typos and run-ons. *sigh* I could really use a Beta Reader.

Edit 2: Also, wow. This has gotten so many hits today. If you're a new reader and liked this, I also did a Superman story in this vein called 'Superman: The Invterview', found here: .net/s/7196923/1/bSuperman_b_The_bInterview_b

Superman and Wonder Woman

"The gods are dead," Diana of Themyscira said solemnly as she wiped the jade blood from her short-sword, mindful of the acidic properties the fluids possessed in staggering concentration, "but their legacy endures in the thousands of creatures that infest North-West America."

"Also in you," Superman reminded and put his hand on her shoulder. Diana sighed. Kal was sweet but he had no concept of a warrior's proper demeanor in the wake of battle. But then, he also hadn't seen the Hydra's handiwork in the mutilated remains of hikers that she had uncovered in her three day search for the monstrosity. So many innocents. So many she could not save.

"I doubt the gods paid much mind to their legacies," Diana said and stepped forward, brushing away Kal's hand. Three-thousand years ago, the land that would one day become Oregon must have seemed a wise place to banish the heirs of Echidna. But then, the gods had assuredly thought solely of their own safety. The safety of mortals was a paltry things to such powerful, selfish beings. These lands had been far from barren in those days as well. At first.

She knelt down at one of the Hydra's heads and began to extract the eyes. Clyestra would be able to do something clever with the properties of several of the beast's vitals.

Hadn't she said something specific about the eyes? Something about the Purple Ray, folly though that was. Still, most of the ingredients said to compose the Purple Ray, the ultimate cure to all strife, were themselves powerful healing agents. Maybe the Hydra would do some good, if only in death. Looking around at sixteen Hydra heads that were strewn about the recently deforested – well, incinerated – slope of Mount Hood, Diana allowed herself a slight smile. Thirty-two eyes may do some good indeed.

"Well," Diana started, sheathed her sword, and turned to Kal, "thank you for punching the beast in the face. It gave me the opening I needed to cut out the heart." The heart now rested in a pouch which hung from Diana's belt. She could still feel it beating without end. Monstrous thing, that heart.

"Diana," Kal said, and hovered over to face her. She hated when he did that. Not the flying, the demeanor. The bigness of Superman was an idea that was hard to banish from the mind. It was as if he was solid in a way that human flesh could not easily emulate; more real.

His thoughts were stronger thoughts, his movements held a greater purpose, his looks were harder. Just like this look, now.

Diana was the legacy of the gods themselves, crafted from marble in the last days before the Fall when the reality of Death loomed over the Old Ones; the Chaos from which was wrought the Fourth World. Her mother, Hippolyta, the Empress of Themyscira, the last vigil holder and sole survivor of the old times had breathed life into her upon the wake of Great Disaster, when all prophesies pointed unwavering at Darkseid's warpath towards Earth; when all else was lost. Twenty Years of training and single-mindedness had not been enough for Diana to stand against the Dark God of the Nowtimes. No, in her moment of truth, Diana had only been able to banish the hoards of Darkseid and Apokalyps with the help of other improbable, yet noble champions. A Dark Avenger, a Crimson Blur, a Jade Guardian, a Sea King, a Clockwork Man, and Superman. And yet all the former were so small – ghosts – next to this density. Magic was powerful, mysterious, chaotic, but also, in its own way, insubstantial. Superman was anything but. He was the rock in the river, the thing that held against the storm.

Even if he didn't know it yet.

That Diana, herself a being of stone, magic, and flesh, felt the hardness lurking around Superman's very being... well, she didn't know how mortals must perceive him. He could be their god. They could bow down and worship him.

Who could stop him?

Not the gods of the Fourth World, that much had been proven. Not Bruce, as much as he would like to think. Hal didn't have the focus. Barry wasn't fast enough. Or, rather, he wasn't strong enough to bolster the speed he had. Diana doubted those blue eyes could stomach the deed at any rate. It took a certain kind of man to slay a friend. Who else? Arthur? Maybe, but not likely. Not even with the full force of Atlantis at his back. Victor? Diana's heart almost broke at the thought. Could she do it? Could she kill this man who had saved her life? The man from Krypton who had chained the Dark One and saved the world from Anti-Life? The part of Diana she hated shrugged, recalculated, and ran scenarios. The other parts just wished it would never come to that.

But the hard look that Superman was directing towards Diana was not one of control or jealousy or anger, but of compassion.

"Diana," Superman started, "none of us have seen you in weeks."

"Why would you have?" Diana walked around the immovable object in her way that was Superman and proceeded to slice out the rest of the Hydra eyes. Superman flinched almost imperceptibly. Diana didn't, smiling to herself. She was a warrior born and flinched from nothing. Even if the retinal fluids did sting her hand a bit. "There have been no further encroaches from those of the Fourth World."

"Well," Superman said and tried to squat next to her but she quickly moved onto the next head, "Barry found a Parademon in Africa, but no. Nothing more than the odd encounter."

"Then I don't see why any of us would -" Diana stopped. She knew what this was.

"Ah," she said, "you were serious." Superman looked puzzled.

"About the Titans?" he asked, "of course I was serious. It's an important -"

"I understand," Diana stood up and looked at the man before her, "it's only logical to consolidate power in the wake of an event like Apokalyps."

"That's not what -" Superman began.

"There was a group in Northern France in the Fourteenth Century," Diana said, sheathing her sword again. "It was lead by a Demon, bound by a man. An Inventor. A Knight. An Immortal. Two of my sisters, themselves exiles, were members of an elite group of warriors. They slew the Cretaceous Hoard and pulled down La Fey, who herself had pulled down Camelot."

"Exactly?" Superman affirmed, hesitantly. He seemed unsure where Diana was going with this.

"History only remains as legend," Diana said, trying to remember her studies, "but it is said that they formed a power base that lasted centuries, perhaps even to this day. Watching for the arriving storm, manipulating the affairs of states, stopping threats before they begin."

Diana did not think that Barry or Hal would have been interested in something like this, but Kal would not have come to her first. This sort of plan would speak to Arthur, surely. Bruce as well. Victor? Well, he was a part of everything these days. He had tried to explain the internet to her, but she had not quite grasped the basic concept. Growing up on Themyscira could do that.

Superman's eyes went from hopeful to dismay. That was new, it occurred to Diana. She had never seen Superman dismayed. Nonplussed, perhaps, battle-weary even, but dismayed? It looked wrong. His cyan eyes should not be able to shine so darkly.

"It wouldn't be secret," Superman said, trying to keep a level tone.

"It would have to be secret," Diana countered. "They tried to kill us, Kal. Before we saved their lives. All of them. There is no place for people like us in the world as it stands but for in the dark and at the fringes. This is how it has always been."

"It doesn't have to be," Superman insisted. From somewhere - Where? - Superman produced a newspaper; _The Daily Planet_. The headline read _Lois Lane Wins Pulitzer, Superheroes Walk Among Us_. Diana was confused. Perhaps her grasp of English wasn't as good as she had thought. Silly Germanic languages. All guttural sounds and imperatives.

"What is a 'Superhero'?" Diana asked, almost to herself.

"Us," Superman replied, smiling, his eyes shining bright once more. "All of us."

"We're warriors," Diana said, not arguing, just stating a fact. Didn't he know?

"Not anymore," Superman insisted, "not freaks, not urban myths, not monsters, not vigilantes. _Superheroes_." He enunciated the word with a barely contained enthusiasm that might have been infectious if Diana had possessed any idea of what he was talking about.

"Is this a _new_ word?" Diana hazarded, slowly.

"It is!" Superman said and smiled broadly.

"And who is Lois Lane?" Diana asked, hesitantly. It was as if the day had moved from the slaying of ancient mythical beasts to something ridiculous.

"She's the one that made it," Superman answered. His eyes shone a little brighter.

"And that makes us..." Diana began, slowly once more.

"Superheroes!" Superman finished for her.

"And what does this change?" Diana squinted. This was not her area of experience. She silently cursed the sigh of relief she had uttered when Superman appeared from nowhere to punch the Hydra in one of its seventeen faces.

"Everything!" Superman said, his enthusiasm waxing. He went on, "Let me explain. You were right. We don't fit into this world. Maybe in times long past. Maybe in times yet to come. But right now, the world is the world. They have words for people who act outside of the very controlled socio-economic power structure. Bad words. Words that are often deserved. But not words for what we do. And while the world thought those words fit to us, there was only so much we could do."

"What we do is vital," Diana broke in, scowling and fingering her sword, still sheathed.

"Of course it is, Diana," Superman broke from his enthused rant and looked her in the eye, "but we can't protect a world that fears and hates us for our audacity to help. Just in and of itself, it hampers the very help we give. Not to mention the constraints it puts on us. We can't influence the power structure of the world. We aren't a part of it. We can't make people better. We don't even fit inside their heads. We -"

"I'm not going to understand this, Kal," Diana cut him off and raised out her hand.

"No, it's simple," Superman insisted, "it's -"

"Kal," Diana cut in again, "I was raised on an Island of women who held to the old ways, the ones which had died off by the time of Aristotle. We solved our problems by wrestling naked, leaving the loser chained to a tree to be heckled by the giant, talking kangaroos." Diana finished, slighting embarrassed about letting the 'giant, talking kangaroo' bit out. Outsiders certainly weren't supposed to know that part. It didn't do a warrior island's reputation fair for people to know it was infested by humongous, sentient marsupials.

Superman didn't laugh – almost – But he mostly stopped and raised his eyebrow. It was almost unbearable.

"Okay," Superman said at last and nodded, "I see your point."

"So you'll just have to keep the political talk for when I'm punching something in the face," Diana said, feeling the implied relent as it left her mouth. So did Superman. He brightened.

"So you're in?" Superman asked, hopefully,

"I have two conditions," Diana held out her hand.

"Name them," Superman said, suddenly solemn. It was almost laughable, but it seemed to be completely without irony.

"First," Diana began, "we won't call ourselves 'The Titans'. It is disrespectful to my heritage, but mostly it has terrible connotations if you actually knew the Titans." Superman cocked his head.

"You knew the Titans?" he asked. Diana fumbled. She actually had the memories of every great hero who had found the favor of the gods bouncing around her head. It was useful when killing monsters or wrestling over a dispute back home, but it did have its less pleasant aspects.

Achilles had been a monstrous brute, and that did not even take into account the things he had done _outside_ of his tent.

"My mother knew them," Diana said, and realized it wasn't a lie. That was good. Best not to lie to Superman. It seemed a transgression, akin to lying to her mother about the state of Man's World. Which she did. Sometimes.

"Well," Superman went on, paying it no mind, "the name was just an idea. I'm sure we can think up something better."

"Good," Diana said and held up her lasso. It shone with several things. Golden Light, Zeus' Lightning. Truth. It was one of the three most powerful things that were left behind by the gods and Diana herself was one of the other two. Superman stared at it and Diana could already sense his trepidation. "My second request," she stated simply.

"I'm not sure I know what -"

"Oh," Diana smiled, pleased to finally have the upper hand in this discussion and not willing to let it pass so quickly, "nothing so outrageous as being left for the kangaroo insults, I can assure you." Superman chuckled, hollowly, and didn't break his gaze on the lasso.

"You could make me do anything with that," Superman said, almost wearily.

"I could," Diana closed the distance between them. It was reality of the matter. It was called the 'Lasso of Truth' but it could have been named the 'Lasso of Compulsion' just as easily. The grasp of the blindingly golden rope could bind even the strongest will to its power. Superman could resist, but not for very long. If Superman agreed, she could have him claw out his own eyes, kill his own mother, even – Diana blushed and hoped Superman was too entranced to notice. While the lasso's powers might have been limitless, Diana's compassion and honor would serve. "But would you want me to join this group of yours if you didn't trust me?" Superman sighed at this and raised his hand. So easy?

"No," he said plainly, "I wouldn't. I do." Diana didn't say anything for fear her shock would give her away. The part of her she didn't like, the part tempered by the cynicism of a thousand battlefields, had seen this moment as her out. No one would willingly submit to the Lasso. That was madness. Superman would be weak. Powerless. But the look in his eyes told Diana that this was known and accepted.

His hand remained out.

Without a word, Diana tied the lasso loosely around Superman's arm.

"Hm," Superman muttered, almost involuntarily. That was unsurprising. Diana had never been bound by the lasso, but she had been told the sensation of entering its power was like having your blood replaced with molten gold. But in a seductively pleasant way. He smiled.

She began.

"What are your intentions for this group?" Diana asked, plainly. And then, "no speeches. Or rants."

"To help people," Superman said simply, as if the lasso had distilled his feelings down to a simple atom of truth, "to change the world for the better." Well, Diana shrugged to herself, that was that. She should untie him. She should.

"Are you with that Lois Lane woman?" Diana asked, despite herself. Some theorized that the lasso worked its own magic on the asker, but Diana had always found the complete power over another soul a twinge... addicting. Despite her better notions. Superman's blush made it worth it.

"No," Superman said. Simply but restrained. As if fighting back a maelstrom of a addendums and hopes. He seemed to be doing well at it, the will must have been staggering. But then, Diana had seen's Superman's will in action before. There was something there, no question. Lucky woman, this Lois Lane, whoever she was.

Diana smiled to herself and took the lasso off. There were other things she could have asked. But she didn't. She was a warrior of Themyscira. Among other things.

"That was," Superman looked around as if suddenly awake after a trance.

"Yes," Diana said, coiling the rope back onto her belt, "they say it can be disconcerting."

"Are you on the team?" Superman asked, seriously.

"Yes," Diana admitted.

"Then it was worth it," Superman smiled, "though I'd appreciate a greater respect for free will and personal boundaries in the future." Diana smiled back.

"Seems the sort of thing I would owe a teammate," she said. And meant it.

"What about a friend?" Superman asked, hovering higher off the ground. Diana matched his growing altitude.

"It's something I would owe a friend too," Diana laughed. One dead Hydra, thirty-six eyes, a beating heart, a team of warriors, a new word, a glimpse into Superman's personal life; perhaps Man's World was more bountiful than she had first anticipated.

They flew together towards the clouds and through them to things beyond.


	3. Cyborg

-Cyborg and Superman-

In the months since his death, Vic had decided that the dreams were the worst part.

There were the dreams of dying, of fire and pain and nothingness. Those dreams were terrifying, but they were not the worst. Vic would wake. He would not be dying. He would not be burning or experience any more pain than the normal dull ache that existed at the borders between flesh and metal. There was not nothingness. There was something – everything – pouring into his brain. The darkened shapes of furniture in his room. The ticking of the clock. The endless stream of his connection to the household interface. Even the internet, sometimes, if he had fallen asleep with his wi-fi engaged.

Similarly, the dreams of waking for the first time, of twisted flesh and metal, a ruined, expressionless face, were not the worst. Vic had made improvements in the months since dying. Circuits interlaced the membranes beneath the skin of his remaining flesh. There had been significant nerve damage when Vic had died, but now his face could emote again. Mostly. The parts which were not fully metal.

These days, he took his victories where he could find them and had found the small ones, the ability to smile – the mere volition to smile – were more satisfying than punching the God of All Evil in the chin. No, the waking dreams were not the worst. Not anymore.

The worst were the number dreams. When the flesh would go to sleep and ones and zeroes would poor endlessly through his consciousness. These were not the dreams of a man; they were the nightmares of a machine. Not electric sheep but an ocean of computations, checks, glitches, fixes, maintenance, and cold. It was like dreaming in a foreign language, but one which a part of Vic – a part not himself – understood intuitively; an alien in his own mind.

And then Vic would wake. Sweat would roll down the portion of his face still made of flesh. He would pant, thoughtlessly, before remembering he didn't have to breath anymore; he had no lungs. But the numbers were still there. Rattling in the back of his mind; cold, calculating, precise, endless. It was noticing the need to blink. If he didn't focus on it, he would forget about it, but if he remembered the numbers, the computer part of his body, it was impossible to ignore for as long as he fixated upon it.

The explanation, that about a quarter of his brain had been too badly damaged to be saved, replaced by a miniaturized computer that would make Bill Gates salivate, did nothing to reassure. _Oh_, his father had said, _nothing essential to your identity. Mostly it was just the hypothalamus, involuntary bodily regulation. Things a machine could have done better even without this … opportunity._

That was what he had called his son's death – an "opportunity". And at first, it had seemed one. Vic had always been strong, but now he was durable on a level no one could have imagined. Stronger than gods. He was faster too, an initial blessing of his robotically enhanced mind. Otherwise, his cybernetic parts would have only been as fast as the impulses of the brain behind their use. Now his brain had RAM; quite a bit of it. He could fly, if not gracefully. He could connect to the internet with his mind, downloading whatever information he might need. Instantly view any video footage. See through any satellite. For Vic the quarterback, the teenager, the dreamer, it was momentary elation, a dream come true; and all it cost him was his humanity, something one never quite notices until it isn't there. Best of all, his father had been so proud.

But time passed, gods fell, elation faded, fathers died, heroes disbanded for their own precincts, and Vic had been left alone. In that solitude, he had come to realize just what the real cost may have been.

Vic was smarter. That had not been apparent at first. He had looked up factoids off his connection to the internet so much that he did not immediately realize that he didn't need to anymore. Everything Vic learned stuck now. Did his brain have a hard-drive now? It did, as it turned out; a massive one.

More than that, Vic found that he could build. He had always had an active imagination, but gradually, that imagination became part of a larger process. Vic would go to bed dreaming of something, a car that he could interface with, or a new type of jet that could smooth his flight patterns, and he would wake with the knowledge and volition of exactly how to build these things. So he did. And they worked.

It was as if his imagination had become just one end of a two part process, a symbiosis of man and machine. A man to dream, a machine to build. Two halves of a single act of creation. Or was that just Vic trying to differentiate his old self from person he was now? Were his robotic parts, his computer brain, a different self from his flesh bits, the last remnant of Vic the quarterback?

Sometimes, he wished he could ask his father. But his father was dead, a traitor to the human race, who had betrayed Superman and Batman and all the rest to a Dark God for the promise of a new life and opportunity in the world to come for himself. And Vic, he had raved at the time of their final meeting – it was for his son, his greatest creation, as well. But Vic had seen too much, had lost too much, to trust his father's judgement.

Now he looked back upon that meeting and wished he had possessed the perspective he now held. The questions he should have asked.

_ Why don't I love football as much as I did? _

_ Why do I now find such importance in your work?_

_ Why do I suddenly prefer Prog Rock to Alt Rock? _

_ Why don't I remember mom's face anymore?_

_ What did you do to my brain? _

Had Vic's father saved his son or taken an opportunity to build a new one, more in line with his own system preferences? Who was this Cyborg who met Vic's gaze in the mirror? Was the differentiation between metal and flesh valid? Had even his flesh parts been transformed into something other?

These were the questions that tumbled through Vic's head as he padded, barefoot, down the long hallway towards his workshop. While neither of Vic's hands had been saved, his feet had been left unscathed by the event of his death and, with the neural interface that he had grafted into them last month, not only could he feel through them as he could before, but their sensory capacity had been enhanced tenfold.

Being outside of his armored extensions was almost painful now. He could feel every shift in temperature, every slight breeze, every crack in the tile. It was overload, but he relished it – the human feeling of it all. He drank in the sounds and the cold and tried to pretend he didn't hear his brain making maintenance checks.

The physical sensation reminded Vic how much he missed smelling things. It had been the one sense he had failed at replicating. No more morning smells, no more coffee brewing, no more freshly shampooed hair, no more fresh baked cookies, no more candles just blown out.

He tried not to miss it, assuring himself that, if he could still smell, everything around him would no doubt smell of electricity and gunmetal. Sometimes that helped. Mostly it didn't. The lack of scent made eating different as well. Though his taste buds were mostly intact, no matter how much extra sensitivity he lent to his tongue via his neural interface, food, even his favorite foods – barbeque, limeade, sweet potato fries, fajitas, green salsa – tasted wrong. As Vic didn't need to eat, he now avoided it. It just reminded him of what he had lost.

To the outside observer, it would have looked like the door to Vic's workshop opened on its own accord. However, Vic felt the almost subconscious interface and order in the back of his brain as the wall slid up and he was met with comforting blue light and the loud, chaotic hum of thirty complicated yet orderly systems booting up at once.

In front of him were his cybernetic extensions, empty. They looked wrong when he was not inside him, he realized, and wondered where the idea had originated; his human mind, which feared further damage or his machine mind which longed for more complex interface? He shook it off. There would be time enough for that later.

Vic thought at the large screen to his left and it came alive with the same blue light that radiated off of his extensions and the car he had left half-built last week. A video-mail had been left for him.

He smiled. Jacob.

He could have accessed the computer without leaving his bedroom, without putting on the screen, but Vic liked the surprise. He liked checking his Tumblr. He liked hearing from friends. It felt human and sometimes Vic needed that deception.

"Hey buddy," Jacob's pixilated face smiled at Vic from the screen and a day earlier. Even though his white coat indicated he was still at work, his sandy hair was a mess of tangles and cowlicks. Freckles on pale skin brought out his green eyes. Despite himself, Vic smiled back – it _did_ feel good to smile.

Before Vic had been a genius level intellect that made even Michael Holt stand up and notice, Jacob had tutored Vic between quarters at football games. In turn, Vic had pulled several strings he had with the scientists at his father's workplace, and gotten Jacob an internship at Star Labs. That internship had turned into a recruitment when the scientists realized just how smart Jacob was; something Vic had assured them of, but most people needed to see for themselves to believe.

"I can't talk much," Jacob mock-whispered at his camera, "but let's just say that 'Project Light' has taken on some momentum. Another scientist here, Arthur, he looked over some of our blueprints and he has some good ideas about," Jacob trailed off, looking around.

Vic smiled. Jacob's enthusiasm, which had kept his head in the books instead of losing himself in the football season, had taken a wholly new turn in the light of Vic's accident. Whereas most of Vic's graduating class had begun to pretend that their class had never had a star quarterback or a homecoming king, Jacob had not only accepted his best friend's new visage, he had thrown himself into helping him improve it. Jacob had upgraded Vic's optic systems. Enhanced the hand canon extension that sometimes adorned his left hand. And, most importantly, lent Vic some human companionship when there had been little to find aside from Superman.

"Well," Jacob whispered, grinning with barely contained enthusiasm, "let's just say Superman and Cyborg won't be the only heroes in Metropo-" Jacob's sentence was cut short as a telescope smashed into his head. Vic jumped in shock as Jacob's face hit the camera and the video cut out. If he had possessed a heart or adrenaline glands, they would be pumping. As it was, his cooling fans came on and a sweat broke out upon the skin of his face.

Without having to think of it directly, Vic played the video back, froze it, and zoomed in on the visage of a snarling, scrawny man wearing a white coat. He had greasy black hair and meticulously groomed goatee.

Vic didn't recognize him. That was odd, he thought, he knew most everyone who worked at S.T.A.R. Labs. But mostly, he just worried about his friend. Vic looked to the half finished work on the 'Cyborg-Mobile' and cursed himself for going to bed early. It wasn't like he needed more than a few hours of sleep a week. He had tried to emulate his old life and it might have gotten Jacob – no, he wouldn't think about that. His human brain yelled at his computer brain to stop running survival scenarios off that level of head trauma. The numbers didn't matter. He was going to save his friend. He was going to find this scientist. He was...

He was going to need the jets.

–

Three hours later and Vic was soaring over Metropolis. The cold night air rushed at his face, the only skin left exposed when he wore armor extensions. It was a numbing cold which did nothing to quell the panic he felt. He had been half way to Mach-Three when he realized he could simply hack into Metropolis General's records and check for Jacob. He found his file under the Intensive Care ward, Critical Condition. The police reports were no help. No suspect. No break in. No footage. The security footage had gone black twenty minutes prior to Jacob's message.

It was only when Vic had hacked his way into the security card records when he found a name – Doctor Arthur Weiss. German. Five foot six. Black Hair. A scientist of some small renown in Munich who had left the country because of an incident that had been redacted on all of his files. Thoroughly redacted. That was strange. A recent hire by... Doctor Silas Stone. Ah.

That had stopped Vic in mid air. What had his father been planning before Apokilips came? What sort of men had he been bringing in under his watch? What had his father's death unchained?

What was worse was that Weiss' residence, a dingy apartment crowded with more pornography than Vic thought any man could own. It had been empty for days. He must have had a second lab, somewhere outside of S.T.A.R. Yet there were no properties to his name.

It was only after another hour of looking through satellites, street cameras, and his own telescopic right eye that Vic thought to look into his father's properties. There had been several ones that Vic had never seen before but the human side of Vic had a hunch about the one abandoned house on the outskirts of town. In the face of a cold logic that streamed endlessly through the back of his mind, Vic enjoyed annoying certain parts of himself with baseless hunches. What more, they sometimes turned out to be right.

So there was Vic, soaring through the night skies above Metropolis towards a house that his father had owned yet never told him about to find a man who had tried to kill his best friend over a project that was supposed to have been a secret between the two youths. Vic sighed. Stupid, excitable, brilliant Jacob Finlay. What had he gotten Jacob into by encouraging him with this nonsense. Make a suit? Become a super hero like his pal or Superman?

Honestly, Vic had just wanted someone his own age that understood. Maybe that had been selfish. If Jacob was alive by the end of this, and Vic was ready to expend any resource he had at his disposal, even the ones which had made him who he was today, towards that goal, he wasn't going to let him risk his life so stupidly again. Maybe that was _also_ selfish, but at the moment, Vic didn't care.

Vic slowed down as he reached the address, a ramshackle house that looked like it had lived through the dangerous 70s that Metropolis had experienced yet never recovered. Its paint was chipped and faded, graffiti adorned its side, only one window had even part of its pane intact. It would have been a palace for squatters or rats. But Silas Stone had a shrewd business sense. If he owned a property that was this decayed, there was almost certainly something more to it than met the eye.

Vic didn't have much time to consider these mysteries as a man dressed in a simple black leotard which extended to his hands, feet, and head with a hole cut out for his face, walked out of the front door. Admittedly, Vic's jets were not the quietest method of travel but, a hulking three ton mesh of flesh and titanium, Vic had few quiet methods of travel.

"I knew you'd come," the man, Arthur Weiss, Victor assumed, said through a smile that made Victor wish he could still bathe, "your father assured me." This stopped Vic. He hoped it was dark enough and he had enough altitude to hide his shocked expression.

"It's not sonics I put in my dossier, I know," Weiss went on, "but some little lab-rat designed this suit. I thought it was only fitting to speed up the plan in the face of such a windfall. Don't you?" Victor didn't know what to say. He wanted to blast this man to oblivion for what he had done to Jacob and his casual reference to what, for all he knew, was his friend's murder did nothing to quell his rage. But at the back of his mind, another voice, a voice almost alien told him to let the man talk, to see what this was. Vic listened, not trusting his temper to make his decisions.

"What does it do?" Vic asked, trying to sound calm.

"Well, look at it," the man smiled, excitedly, extending the arm and admiring his fingers. "Perfect black. The suit absorbs every bit of light it comes into contact with."

"What good is that?" Vic asked, knowing full well what he and Jacob had planned for the suit.

"Well," Arthur stroked his goatee and chuckled to himself, "I can do whatever I want with that light it absorbs." He paused and an orb of golden sunlight grew from his fingers, illuminating everything in a ten food radius aside from the suit itself, still a perfect, featureless black. "Anything I desire."

"What do you have in mind?" Vic tried again as he descended to the ground. He just had to get close. Just keep this sociopath talking, he seemed to like talking. Doctor Weiss raised a thin eyebrow.

"Why," he started, slowly, "to further the goals of the Society, of course. What else could I be talking of?" A smile crept onto his face. "Surely you don't suggest we use this power for our more," he paused and his smile grew wider and more disquieting, "immediate gain?"

Vic said nothing, just watched as the grinning Doctor Weiss juggled three balls of sunlight, chuckling at his own cleverness. He wanted to punch the man in the diaphragm, but this fool's prattling was getting him closer to his father's –

"You know, Silas said I should stay away from you for at least a year," Weiss said absently, "that the programming wouldn't kick in at first." Vic's thoughts froze. Oh no. What had- Weiss went on.

"But then, Silas always did underestimate himself," Weiss said as he let the balls of light be reabsorbed into the gloves of the black suit, "it's not like the goals of the Society aren't obviously necessary to anyone who has experienced the perspective that comes with otherworldly power." The last words were said with a sort of madness that pushed Vic over the edge. He could find out what his father had programmed into his head later. This creep was his.

"You could have learned something from my father," Vic said, coldly, and shot Weiss in the chest with the canon attached to his left hand.

Aside from the shocked look on Weiss' face, there was no effect. The beam sunk deep into the suit. There was no concussive effect from the hard … light.

Light.

Right. Vic rolled his left eye at his miscalculation. Weiss, rubbed his hands over his chest, where the beam had done nothing, as if searching for a hole. When he didn't find it, he stopped, confused. Then understanding donned on his face. Weiss smiled. It was not a pretty sight.

"Oh," he began, through a maniacal grin, "that was your last mistake." He raised his right as hand and blue light extended from every fingertip. Victor gaped. Hard light constructs were not part of the suit's capabilities. Not a month ago when he had last seen Jacob's blueprints. He almost didn't get out of the way in time as Weiss lunged forward, claws out.

Victor jumped into the air. Well, boosted was the better term. It was hard to jump when you weighed three tons unless you had automatic jet boosts attached to your boot. Vic tried not to think of what may have happened if he hadn't been fast enough. Hardened, light could be sharper than glass, harder than diamond, with more give than folded steel. It could have sliced through his bionic extensions into his flesh.

His flesh.

Vic decided he wouldn't get close to Weiss and engaged his hand-cannon again, still in the air. This time, however, he shot at the pavement below Weiss' feet. Weiss was still mid-lunge – people always expected Vic to be slow because of how big he was, both on the football field and at his new day-job, but he had always been deceptively fast – and, as the ground split beneath him, there was no way for Weiss to recenter his weight. He fell on his face. Hard.

"Wahhhh," he cried in shock, picking himself off the pavement and spitting out a bloody lump of mucus, "Ew annot essk Octer Aight!"

"What?" yelled Victor, almost smirking at the audacity of the garbled curse. Weiss spat again and repeated.

"You cannot escape Doctor Light!" he yelled, but this time he let out a burst of white light from his chest larger than anything Vic had thought the suit capable of. Vic was fast but light was faster. There was no time to get out of the way.

Numbers flared red as Vic's right hand dissolved into nothingness, incinerated by Weiss' attack. It was an odd sensation to lose a hand. Again. This time, it didn't hurt. There had been no nerves left to flare in pain. It was a lack of extension. A regional system failure. A project for later that night. A small part of Vic marveled at his coldness, but most of the rest just wanted to put this idiot down before he hurt anyone who could feel it.

He pointed his cannon at Weiss' feet, not dignifying his ridiculous name with a comment and shot once more. However, this time the hard light bent and went directly into Weiss' chest. Weiss smiled and vanished.

Ah, Vic thought, annoyed he had forgotten about the light-bending properties of the suit. He could be anywhere. As long as he –

Victor gasped as something sharp bit into the flesh of his face. He was bleeding. How had? He had been hov- Hard Light bridges? It was. Again? Pain. And wetness. Was he bleeding? No, but he was – where? Leaking? 00100111? 1001111111? Was there something in his brai-?

Some part of Vic that was not made of flesh engaged his sonic defenses. All of them.

There was a blinding bursts of sound that would have shattered the eardrums of any human in ten feet or any dog in on hundred. Vic, shocked by pain, felt bad about that. Then he noticed the Weiss, standing shocked in the air next to him. His ears were bleeding. The golden sword of light he had been holding, which had been embedded in Vic's face was shrinking. So was the bridge he was standing on. Weiss wasn't responsive. He was going to fall.

_Good_, part of him said.

Another part of Vic went to work releasing nanobots into his flesh, knitting back together the flesh that the sword had parted. Had the sword gone through to his brain? What would the nanobots replace the broken brain tissue with? Vic or his father's programming?

Another a third part of Vic screamed at him to catch the man who had maybe murdered his best friend, who had stuck a sword into his brain, who had been in league with his father. The bridge was dissolving.

It would be so easy.

He couldn't.

Yes he could.

What would Superman do?

They were sixty feet in the air. One moment of inaction and that would be all. No one would think to blame him. All he had to do was –

He grabbed Weiss' arm as the bridge faded, hating himself. He was going to feel a lot worse if Jacob died, but he'd rather live with that than with cold blooded murder. And that's what it would have been. Weiss was no threat. For now.

Vic grabbed the suit and tore it off Weiss. There was a burst of light as the suit tore and all the light it had absorbed was released at once. It blinded one of Vic's eyes.

Then it was over.

Vic was alone in the air holding a scrawny, unconscious, naked man.

Then he wasn't.

"Hello Victor," Superman said, arriving faster than Vic's sensors could track him. Or perhaps he just hadn't been paying attention.

"Hello Superman," Vic replied, "I make enough noise to get your attention?"

"Actually, I would have just left you to it," Superman replied, not asking about the naked man, "I was in Central City, but then I heard this "zee, zee, zee" sound that -"

"Oh," Victor interrupted, almost chuckling to himself despite the pain in his face, "Jimmy Olsen's Superman Signal-Watch."

"I don't know if it has an official name," Superman shrugged.

"He was taking some pictures after I fought the Parasite the other week," Victor explained, "I must have accidentally scanned it." And then he must have filed it under sonic defenses. What better defense than summoning Superman to your side in a fight? Vic resolved to not let his subconscious make filing decisions in the future.

"He's a good kid," Superman said, still not asking about the naked man.

"I like him too," Vic replied, trying not to acknowledge the awkward silence. "He hurt a friend of mine, stole an experiential light suit, and tried to kill me," Vic blurted out.

"I wasn't going to ask," Superman said, putting out his hand, "I trust your judgment." He did too, Vic thought. At only nineteen, he had the trust of the world's first Superhero. Did he deserve it? Should he tell Superman about what Weiss had said? About his father? About the programming that might compromise his very sense of self?

"How's Barry?" Vic asked, not bringing it up and hating himself for it. He just needed time. He could look into his own brain enhancements. He was getting smarter every day. Was that part of it?

"Busy," Superman said, "interested though." Vic smiled.

"Oh good," he said, "I would hate to think I was designing a Moon Base for nothing."

"I don't think that's possible," Superman smiled and looked up. The moon was big tonight. Vic hadn't noticed in his rush to find Weiss.

"So that's Bruce, Hal, and Barry in," Superman said, almost to himself, still looking at the moon.

"Should I talk to Diana?" Vic asked, "I know you didn't leave things well."

"Diana and I will be fine," Superman said, "she just doesn't like the idea of accepting help."

"I just thought," Vic started and then stopped. A coldly calculating part of his brain informed him to cease thinking like an adolescent. He tried to listen.

"I'm excited you came up with this Vic," Superman said and put his hand on his shoulder, "I'll be honest, I don't know if I would have included you -"

"What's supposed to mean?" Vic almost yelled. Then, almost instantly, he calmed. It had been a long night. He cut power to the jets and landed next to the shambled house, throwing the unconscious Weiss down onto the overgrown lawn. Superman was still behind him.

"I just meant -" Superman began.

"What?" Vic said, not yelling but still with a bit of edge, "that I should stick to the youth team?"

"No," Superman said, and suddenly wasn't behind Vic anymore, but floating before him. Damn but Superman was fast. Vic was fast too, but at least his movements were usually trackable by the human eye. The look on Superman's face was one of concern. Did he know? Had he found out about what his father had been up to?

"I know how much you've already sacrificed for us," Superman said, "If you never wanted anything to do with us or our world again I wouldn't hold it against you for even a moment."

"If I didn't want anything to do with you guys or your world ever again," Vic said, shaking his head at the thought, "I wouldn't have started calling myself Cyborg, designed half a moon base, and started fighting crime." They shared a look. Then Superman laughed. The awkwardness was gone. Vic laughed too.

"I know," Superman said, sighing, "but this," he gestured at the destroyed area in front of the house. At the destroyed suit, still leaking white light. At the naked, groaning Weiss.

It was only then Vic realized no one had called the police. Maybe this place really did deserve the name 'Suicide Slum'. Vic shrugged.

"It was a busy night," Vic agreed.

"It didn't have to be your fight," Superman started. "I decided to do this because I made a conscious choice. Bruce trained for years. Hal can resign at any time. Barry can hang up his tights..."

"But I'm stuck like this," Vic finished for him.

Superman didn't say anything.

"You need to get over this guilt," Vic started, "or we're never going to function as a team."

Superman started to say something.

"No," Vic cut him off, "I may have gotten this way by helping you, but I didn't make that choice by accident. I didn't just fall into the decision to use these powers. I chose this life."

"You didn't have to," said Superman

"You're right," Vic said, seriously, "I didn't. But I had some good inspiration." Superman stopped. Then relaxed again.

"Alright," he said, and nodded.

"Alright," Vic answered, "this is the last I want to hear of this. Don't think just because you're the last son of Krypton I can't take you down a peg."

"Oh I'd like to see that," Superman brightened up and suddenly looked years younger. How young _was_ Superman? Sometimes he was so full of enthusiasm it seemed he might burst. Other times it was like he took the weight of the world squarely upon his shoulders, ready to fight whoever came to help lighten the load. And yet he thought _Diana_ had issues with needing help.

"Well, it would have to be with one hand tied around my back," Vic joked and held up the leaking stump where his bionic right hand had once been, "or you'd have to give me a night to rebuild."

"We could take this to the football field," Superman suggested with mock seriousness.

"Hah," Vic laughed with a hollowness that frightened him, "no thanks, I'm not as into football anymore." It was true, but it brought back his earlier worries. It reminded him of something though.

"When we get everyone together," Vic started, not sure how to phrase it, "we should talk. Weiss was a part of something called 'The Society'. The," he paused, looking for a word, "_supervillains_ may be ahead of us on the team idea." Vic felt silly saying the word 'supervillians' but that was just the world he lived in now. Jet boots, light swords, secret societies, and _supervillains_. That he had left out his father's involvement, and perhaps his own, crept at his conscience. But he didn't say anything more.

"Isn't that always the way," Superman sighed. "Well we'll have to talk about it. It looks like The Titans may have their work cut out for them before they even begin."

"Seems to be the case," Vic agreed.

"Well, I'll talk to Diana tomorrow," Superman said and took to the air again. He was gone.

"And Victor," Superman said, appearing at Victor's side in a blur. That was unsettling. "Thank you. For your sacrifice." There were the old eyes again. Vic was almost sure that Superman wasn't this way around the older members of the Titans. He was going to have to fix that if the Young Titans ever officially formed. Wasn't Bruce supposed to send his apprentice – Jason? – up to Metropolis one weekend for an interview?

"It was only flesh," Vic lied.

Superman's nodded, sighed, and was gone.


	4. The Flash

A/N: _This one took a while. Like a week of writing and un-writing and hating myself for not being able to do a simple story. I'm kind of pissed I locked myself into doing Flash next when I had some pretty cool Green Lantern stuff bouncing around. Regardless, it's done. Now I can *finally* get back to Doctor Who._

Superman and the Flash

The problem with puberty, decided Wally West as his velocity hovered over the speed of sound, was definitely the super speed. Not the Speed itself, mind you. That was phenomenal. Freeing. Being Kid Flash was – well, he didn't know what he would be without it. Without helping people. Without the mentorship of his Barry. Without the release from what his life had been not a year ago. And, realistically, it was by far the best result of being struck by lightening that he could imagine. He wasn't going start railing against the world because he had wound up with the powers of a god instead of burnt to a crisp.

However, it was the inconsistency of it all. Hormones and superpowers seemed to have some serious disagreements. Sometimes Wally's brain would speed up while his body was doing things the normal speed. For upwards of an hour, which seemed like three weeks, Wally would be stuck in a body which could not adequately express the orders his mind was sending out. It was like being in a waking coma, near paralysis. Once it had happened during a test and he was stuck on problem thirty six for a relative day – five minutes real time – it turned out he was just as unable to do pre-caclculus no matter how much time he had to think the problem over. There was nothing to do but wait out his C+.

Sometimes his Speed would short out all together. Thankfully, it usually did this gradually, lest he wind up splattered on the pavement three thousand miles away from home. As it was, Wally found that, while he could usually hit the speed of sound consistently, he could only run fast enough to match his mentor's speed – somewhere between light and tachyon particles – for twenty-five minutes a day. And _that_ was only if he had had a good night's rest.

Wally had asked Barry if he knew why his powers operated differently. Barry had had little to say on the matter. But then, Barry had been working five different cases simultaneously. Three murders for the Central City forensics, a Parademon was running amok in Gorilla City – where Wally had never been invited for some reason – and the Weather Wizard had taken it upon himself to rain out the Keystone Salamanders game. It may have been been a bad time. But then, by those standards, they were _all_ bad times. Barry couldn't be in two places at once, not unless he accelerated his quantum standing – which was rarely worth the mess – but he could run back and fourth between up to seven situations fast enough to give the illusion. Barry was much better at handling the immediate, tactile situations before him – no matter how big or confounding – than he was at sitting down and thinking things through in the theoretical – no matter how important.

Barry was a good mentor on those occasions when Wally could match him at speed. It had been Barry who taught Wally how to run on water, create cyclones, and vibrate though solid surfaces – which Wally still couldn't do without permanently destabilizing matter. He was warm and validating and infectiously trusting in Wally's abilities; everything Wally's own father wasn't.

However, when Wally's time was up – when had to slow down – Barry had to keep going. People depended on him – lives were at stake. Wally still helped out, chugging along at sub-sonic speeds as best he could, but it was like the radio station had changed – Wally and Barry were on different wavelengths.

Thankfully, Wally didn't need to run much faster than the speed of sound to deal with an idiot like the Trickster.

"People of Central City!" boomed the distorted voice of the Trickster from every metallic surface within a hundred yards. _The Ventriloquism Radius_, Wally thought and rolled his eyes, weaving in and out of seven – whoops, eight – bubblegum traps that littered the street. He was going to have to hear every word that this lunatic decided to pontificate – that was the _real_ crime here. Bank robbery was a small, manageable thing compared to being a loud-mouth. Wally should know, being a loud mouth as he was.

"I hope you're ready to laugh – all the way to the bank!" the Trickster boomed through a mailbox directly under where he stood. Wally cringed, at least his witty remarks were – well – witty – delightful some would even say. Stupid Trickster.

The Trickster himself stood in the air a hundred feet above the Bank of Central City. He wasn't flying, he was just standing. Air Shoes solidified the air directly under their wearer's feet in a way that did not cooperate with gravity, allowing the wearer to climb as high as he or she wanted in mid-air with no more difficulty than climbing stairs. If they didn't have little bells on them, Wally might have been jealous. Say what you wanted about the name Kid-Flash, but at least his costume didn't have stripes – or bells. His costume was actually totally awesome. It even came with goggles and friction-proof fabric.

Far above, the Trickster cackled his own terrible joke and began pulled out his Sparkle Gun, the second most annoying gun in his day-to-day arsenal. At least it wasn't the Rainbow Gun, Wally shuttered at the thought. Wally wasn't sure why Barry let these things go on as long as he did. Sure, no one ever got hurt when Barry was on the scene of a Rogue attack, but it also could last upwards of three minutes. It was as if Barry enjoyed the pageantry of the encounter. Wally didn't share the sentiment. Barry could indulge the Rogues' quirks but he couldn't talk to Wally for more than twenty-five minutes. _Wrong day to try something_, Trickster, Wally thought,_ The Flash isn't home_.

Wally grimaced and put on his goggles, and prepared to boost. Honestly, the Trickster shouldn't be worth burning a minute of his precious super speed – that could be used to hang out alongside Barry – get some answers maybe – but if he didn't put this down fast, people could get hurt. The Sparking Gun may have had a dumb name, but it could still liquefy a person's eyeballs from three hundred yards.

The Trickster was still laughing as he cocked his gun. Through the metal surfaces on below, Wally could hear it warm up with a crackle. The Trickster began to says, "fools! You can never stop the Befuddling Trick-"

Then Wally stepped outside of Time.

Well, not really. But that was how it felt, coming into his Speed in full. Contrary to what many would have thought, it was not a hectic, manic feeling, moving at near light speeds. It was like the world slowed down to a stop. It was relaxing. You didn't even have to run fast when things were this slowed down. Though sauntering at the speed of light looked a bit silly – best to indulge in the image of a daring Super-Speedster. And it wasn't as if Barry or Wally ever got tired from running since they came into their powers. A run across the Atlantic to Africa took no more effort than standing up to refill your glass from the sink.

Everyone always thought Wally was a hot-headed impatient, and maybe that was a valid interpretation from the outside, but Wally didn't experience the world as everyone else did. Every syllable was drawn out, every pause an eternity. It was like waiting in line at the post office all day every day – and yet people wondered why sometimes he was short or quick to action.

But between moments, fulling utilizing his Speed? Well, that was nice. It was like the entire world was waiting for you to take your time. Was this what Barry had all the time? No wonder he always seemed so relaxed. No wonder he so rarely came up for air.

"," said the statue that was the Trickster, still a hundred feet in the air. A hundred feet in the air and still quite close to the side of the Central City Bank building. Wally shrugged. That was all he needed.

Wally ran towards the Central City Bank building at a mad dash that did nothing except psyche him up. What were an extra ten miles an hour when you had accelerated past human comprehension? As his foot hit the wall of the Bank, he ran up. Gravity did little to object. Wally could feel its tendrils searching him out, wanting to pull him down. But it was like running on water; as long as he kept moving, it couldn't catch him.

Without much difficulty, Wally ran a hundred vertical feet up the building until he was level with the Trickster, still hissing the middle of his own name and looking down, gun pointed towards the bystanders below.

Hoping he had enough momentum built up – it was hard to tell sometimes when everything slowed down – Wally jumped at the Trickster, plucking him from the air and – it turned out he _did_ have enough momentum – hurdling him into the Central City Commerce Center, across the street. It was like punching a sleeping person. Too easy to be much fun, really. The thought of saving the random pedestrian from whimsical incineration would have to do in place of adrenaline.

Wally punched the Trickster in the jaw, forehead, pelvis, and chest, making sure to spread it out – no more than twenty punches in any one spot. He wouldn't feel it past that and the bruising could be life threatening if taken to the extreme. It was better just to –

Time sped back in.

What? How was that even – Wally slammed into the Central City Commerce Center. Hundreds of feet off the air.

"Waaaaaa," said the Trickster, splayed out in what had, a moment before, seemed like solid ground. Gravity lurched.

They plummeted.

Wally was going to die. Wally was going to die be cause of the _Trickster_.

Stupid puberty.

Then, just as suddenly as Wally's powers had fled, Wally wasn't falling anymore. What? Barry? But no, he wasn't shooting through the air like he did when Barry caught him. He was still.

Wally opened his eyes. Superman was holding him by his wrist. In his other hand, he held the Trickster, groaning, by the cape.

"Hello," Superman said, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about this meeting, "have you seen the Flash?"

–

"This is where I work after school most days," Wally said, heaving the iron screen up. He lead Superman into the garage. Only it wasn't Superman now. There was something he was supposed to call Superman now? Kent? Right. "Mister Kent," he added. Wally had changed into a yellow hoodie and jeans. He was just Wally. Superman had changed into a suit and glasses. He was just Mister Kent.

It had never occurred to Wally that Superman would have a secret identity like himself or Barry. Wally had to be Wally because he wasn't capable of being Kid Flash all of the time. Barry could barely keep his life together outside of his efforts as the Flash, despite the ability to run faster than light. And the only reason they really tried was because they had been these people before getting Speed – before they were Flash and Kid Flash. Wasn't Superman an alien? Wasn't he super all the time? Hadn't he always been so?

"No one else seems to be home," Superman noticed, looking around. Three half-finished cars stood up on scaffolding in the center of the room.

"Yeah," Wally said, embarrassed, "I can get through about four cars a day. So, eventually, Mister Bixby fired everyone else and just comes in mornings."

"Well that's," Superman paused, "enterprising of him."

"Oh," Wally walked over to a project Bixby had left for him, nothing more than a busted a/c probably. Which was good as his speed had barely kicked back in, "he's a total skeez. But he doesn't ask any questions about why I can fix so many cars in a day." Superman cocked his head.

"Do you think he suspects?" he asked.

"I think he thinks I'm an excellent mechanic," Wally answered and popped the hood of the pink corvette. Everything looked fine. "Good with cars. Probably thinks he's making a shrewd decision, keeping me all to himself."

Wally slammed the hood back down. He'd get to that later. Right now he was talking to Superman. The nice thing was that, when Wally's baseline speed had kicked back in and Wally's perception had snapped back to its normal levels, Superman had sped his own mannerisms and speech to match. It was like they were both records playing at double speed, but relative to one another, they were normal. It was a courtesy that Wally rarely experienced as from with Barry. He didn't want to waste the time on some skeez's cars.

"Do you eat?" he asked, walking to the garage's kitchen at a leisurely seventy miles per hour. He slid into the refrigerator. In the absence of his super-friction boots, it could hard to stop fully. Feeling foolish, he hoped Superman hadn't seen. If he had – and he probably had – Superman gave no notice.

"The carburetor's shot on this one," he called from the garage, before "Yes, sometimes."

"Want grilled cheese while we wait for Barry?" Wally asked, "he's hard to get a bead on, but he almost always checks in at five to see if I've burnt through my twenty-five minutes yet."

"Your what?" Superman – Mister Kent – poked his head into the kitchen.

"My twenty-five minutes," Wally repeated, turning on the stove and sighed. It always took so long for the electric stove to heat. "I can only run _really_ fast for twenty-five minutes a day. The rest of time time it's all just faster-than-a-speeding-bullet stuff." Had that been rude? "No offense," he added.

"None taken," Superman smiled and looked at the stove. For a moment, his eyes were red. Then the burner was red. Hah, excellent. Superman didn't like to wait for grilled cheese either. "I'm actually quite a bit faster these days," he said, with a smile and sat at the kitchen table.

"Lucky," Wally commented as he put the oil on the pan, the pan on the burner, and got out the bread and cheese. "You know cars?"

"A bit," Superman said, "I used to help my dad with his truck. We kept it running."

"Yeah," Wally said, almost to himself, "that's what you have to do."

"Nothing like this," Superman said, as if a series of jalopys was something to be proud of.

"Oh," Wally said, moving the bread around in the pan with a spatula, "I'm not a very good mechanic. I just have more time for trial and error. Honestly, I just like figuring out the way things are put together." The grilled cheese scent began to waft through the kitchen. Wally's stomach clutched. He got hungry after using his Speed. Had he had enough to eat today? Was that why his Speed had almost gotten him killed?

"Like cars?" Superman asked.

"Like cars," Wally agreed, and then paused. Superman didn't want to hear him talk about his stupid problems. He was Superman. He saved the world daily. But he was looking at him so earnestly, like he was actually interested. "My powers too," Wally added, trying to sound casual.

"Oh?" Superman asked, prodding him to go on.

"Yeah," Wally began, "it's just. They don't make sense. I mean, before I was Kid Flash, back when I just thought 'wow, super speed' but then -"

"It's different when you're experiencing it," Superman finished for him, nodding. "I get that. I barely remember what it was like not being able to see sounds."

"Exactly," Wally went on, encouraged – had Superman not always been super? – "it's like, you think it's going to be all frantic pace and high energy – and, from an outside perspective it _is_ – but internally, things slow down. And there isn't much to do but think. Like, my costume is friction-less. Yeah?"

"Yes, Barry said he cooked up a compound," Superman affirmed.

"But my hair isn't in the costume. It doesn't burn up," Wally said, smiling. He flipped the grilled cheese.

"Neither does mine," Superman pointed out.

"Yeah, but yours is probably Super-Hair, ten times more resilient than mortal hair. I tested this – my hair still burns. I can light it on fire. It should burn from the friction when I'm running. So it's not just running fast," Wally said and paused to put the first grilled cheese on a plate. He reached for more ingredients.

"Another thing is that I don't have to breath when I'm running. Like, my muscles and stuff still oxygenate. I mean I _do_ breath, nut even if my muscles are going fast and I'm breathing fast, there should be a set rate at which blood oxygenates. Chemically, my blood shouldn't be able to oxygenate faster even if I'm breathing faster. At some point while I'm using my Speed, I should suffocate and die," he finished, more excitedly than he had meant.

Superman cocked his head, smiling.

"But I don't! Not to mention, it doesn't wear me out to run around the world," Wally went on. "My muscles don't get tired. But I still get tired when I'm not using my Speed. If I try my best to not use my Speed, to just run, I can run a mile, sure, but I'll be sweating at the end. I'll be worn out. My eyes can get tired from reading a book at normal speed, but when I use my Speed to read, it's like pure information absorption – it doesn't last, but it's fast and instantaneous." Wally was rambling, but for the moment, it was just good to have someone to listen.

"What are you getting at?" Superman asked, frowning at the stove of the ratty kitchen.

"Well, and Barry – the Flash, sorry – doesn't pay this much mind, but I think that Barry and I haven't been changed at all by our accidents." Superman's eyebrows raised, but he waited for Wally to go on.

"I mean, you're Superman. You have organs or something processing Sunlight and turning it into -" Wally gestured excitedly towards Mister Kent.

"It's like Superfood. Food your body can break down and turn into power – naturally," Wally said. He was getting excited. Was he unconsciously using his Speed? He had to be careful giving reports in class for this very reason. Especially in things he was interested in.

"Sure," Superman conceded.

"But with us, we still have all the same organs. My eyes as far as I can tell, are still normal human eyes. My mom has never gotten any strange questions when I get check-ups. But I can _see_ when I'm running near the _speed of light_. That shouldn't be physically possible. Leaving behind the physics involved, my irises shouldn't be able to process the information. Everything should redshift because I'd be going the same frequency as anything. And if the light is moving but the other things -" Wally was definitely ranting. And the second grilled cheese was – well, not burnt – overdone. He spatula-ed it onto a second plot. "Do you want ketchup?" Wally asked, thoroughly sheepish.

"You don't have to be embarrassed," Mister Kent said. He got up and took the burnt grilled cheese for himself. Then he opened the fridge to retrieve the ketchup, sitting down at the table. Wally joined him.

"Sometimes I get excited," Wally said, finally, not touching his grilled cheese – he had embarrassed himself in front of Superman – _idiot. _Mister Kent just smiled.

"Well," he began, "you were speaking at 2000 words per minute, but I think I caught most of it. It's not often I get to practice my Super-Hearing on that magnitude. You'll have to forgive me for not participating more. It was taking some effort to keep my mannerisms in sync. Otherwise I would have looked like a statue."

"Ah," Wally rubbed the back of his head, "thanks."

"It's no problem," Superman assured him, taking a piece of his grilled cheese, dabbing it into his ketchup, "so what do you think the answer is? If you weren't altered by your accidents, what happened?" Wally smiled, but tried to contain it better this time.

"Well," Wally began, hesitating, "I – think – and I haven't been able to talk with Barry about this but – "

They were interrupted by a crimson lightening bolt which streamed into the kitchen faster than thought.

"مرحبا الي ،" said Barry Allen, the fastest man alive, "مرحبا سوبرمان، ماذا تفعلين?" Wally stared. Barry stared back, confused. Superman just waited. After a moment, Barry shook his head in realization.

"Sorry," Barry said, grinning but not sitting down, "I just learned Arabic three minutes ago. Grodd's Hoard was trying to destabilize the – it doesn't matter. There were just a lot of authorities to inform. Paperwork to – probably crowding up my language centers a bit. It'll be gone in a moment. Ah. There. Funny thing, speed reading. Certainly a different language to think in, shame I never hold onto them long enough to dream in –" Barry shook his head.

"Superman," he went on almost immediately. Why are you in Keystone? I live in Central."

"I know," Superman said, having another bite of grilled cheese. Wally started on his own. It was good if a bit cold. He considered attempting to vibrate the molecules, but he didn't feel like risking the explosion. "Wally was there taking care of things, he brought me here to wait for you."

"Good," Barry smiled, "though in the future you can just leave a post-it on my back-door. What is this about?"

"The Titans," Superman said, casually.

"Oh," Barry said brightening. "Most definitely. You talk to Diana?"

"I'm waiting until I have more to -"

"Of course," Barry said waving the rest away. "Wally do you want to -"

"Speed is on the fritz," Wally said through a mouthful of sandwich. Barry looked disappointed. Wally tried not to.

"I'll check back tomorrow," he said, simply, "say hi to your aunt for me."

"I will," Wally said.

With a flash, Barry was gone.

Wally said nothing for a long time, just ate his sandwich. Then, suddenly, there was no more sandwich. Stupid Speed – he was still hungry.

"When do you get off?" Mister Kent asked.

"Whenever I want," Wally replied, "I have a key to lock up. I usually stay until 11. It's … well it's better here. I have a cot in the back too." Superman didn't say anything to that, just nodded.

"You're a good kid, Wally," Superman said, nodding, "you have it together more than I did at your age."

"I have non-working powers, a mentor who can't slow down to mentor me, a crummy job, and -" Wally stopped. He wasn't going to talk about that. Not with Superman.

"When I was fifteen," Superman said, mock whispering, "I burnt down my school's gym."

"No way," Wally said, laughing, "with heat vision?"

"Much harder to get a hold of than most people think," Superman smiled, sheepishly, "now, tell me about this theory of yours."

"Oh right," Wally leaned back, "the _Speed Force_." He rolled his eyes at his own name for it. "You don't want to hear about that. You found Barry, you don't have to stick around anymore. I understand." He did, that was the worst part.

Superman got up. Wally's stomach sank.

"I have time. More grilled cheese?"

_A/N: Liked it? Hated it? Let me know. Feedback helps me grow._


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